


A Loaf of Bread And Thou

by Aloysia_Virgata



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8107729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloysia_Virgata/pseuds/Aloysia_Virgata
Summary: He is happy to nourish her in any way he can.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for @perplexistan, who asked for IWTB-era Mulder cooking. Scully quotes The Little Prince in section II.

Running is so easy for them; they’ve been doing it in one way or another for over a decade, both sprints and marathons. But to be still now, to share a space without a rockslide of file folders and grand conspiracies to distract them, is a challenge. Mulder’s optimism on the subject is a tenuous thing.

Scully brings home oilcloths for the kitchen table, pretty lamps and bedding. He likes the household goods she buys because they imply commitment. Each rug and kitchen gadget minutely increases the gravitational force of their small home. Each throw pillow adds mass to the center around which they now orbit.

He learns fix-it skills to occupy himself, tightens hinges and spackles cracks. He is inspired by the males of other species, bowerbirds and red velvet mites, who build homes to impress their mates. He would bring her a mammoth or an aurochs, were there any nearby.

Scully finds him on the roof one evening, examining the shingles.

“Mulder,” she calls from below, shielding her eyes to gaze up at him with amused disapproval. ‘You should be wearing a safety harness.”

“I jumped onto a moving train once,” he points out, extracting a hammer from his toolbelt. “Besides, you don’t think this is at least a little sexy?”

She grins. “Maybe a little.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He crouches down, making something of a production of replacing the loose shingle. His mother spins quietly in her grave.

Scully calls to him again, asking if he wants pepperoni or mushroom when she runs to Gianna’s Sub and Pizza Bistro.

Mulder beams at her. “I have prepared a meatloaf, “ he says grandly. “It is in the oven as we speak, roasting in its own succulent juices.”

“Mulder,” she says warily. “What?”

“A meatloaf,” he explains,sitting on the edge of the roof, “is essentially a giant meatball. It is cooked in a loaf pan or mounded onto a cookie sheet. Often frosted with ketchup. A beefcake, if you will.” He swings his legs.

“I’m familiar with the concept. But your cooking skills have never extended much past microwaves and can openers. So I find myself confused.”

“I’m providing for you. I hunted down some ground chuck and onions and….stuff. I bought three loaf pans, because get this, you can make multiple batches and freeze them. They freeze very well, meatloaves.” He’s hamming it up to make her smile, but also genuinely delighted with himself. House. Meat. Fire. Woman.

“Come down,” she says. 

He climbs onto the ladder and returns to earth and Scully, wiping his hands on his pants before embracing her.

“Mulder I must say, this domestic side of you is quite charming. Where’d you get the recipe?”

He kisses her sun-warmed head. “Guy at the store wrote down what he does, and I just bought everything. And the pans. Three loaf pans.”

“You’re setting the bar very high, you know. I’m going to start expecting you in pearls and an apron every day.”

“With pleasure. You want anything on under the apron?”

“Depends how good your cooking is.”

He takes her by the shoulders, stares down into her serious little face. “I’m going to do this right, Scully. I am really, really not going to fuck this up, okay?”

She nods, her eyes large and solemn. 

A beeping sound comes from the open kitchen window and Mulder dashes inside, leaving her smiling in dappled sunshine.

II.

He fries chicken for the first time in a cast iron skillet that Scully got from a flea market. He can see his reflection in the bottom of it, countless layers of grease turning the flat metal into something beautiful, like a magic mirror.

The chicken sizzles in lard from the butcher, Mulder turning it gently with heavy tongs. On the counter lie thick stacks of grocery bags and old newspapers to absorb the drippings. In a basket on the table are strawberries from the garden, biscuits, and fresh cream. Mint tea cools in the fridge.

Scully has three days off, an unprecedented luxury, and he aims to make the most of them. He has visions of himself rowing her in a skiff over the lake. In his mind’s eye she is wearing something gauzy and Edwardian, a parasol shielding her skin. He cannot explain this fantasy, but finds it pretty enough to indulge.

She comes downstairs, lured awake by the scents and noise of food. She wears a pair of grey boxer shorts and a yellow cotton camisole. At the sight of her, his Walter Crane vision melts away without a hint of regret.

“Good morning,” she says, to both him and the coffee pot. “What’s all this?”

“Vintage American cuisine,” he says, taking the last of the chicken from the pan. 

Scully adds cream to her coffee, then slouches against the counter. Her legs are shapely beneath the baggy fabric, the curve of her quadriceps alluring. “Any special occasion?”

“Picnic,” he says. “We’re having one later.”

She sips from her mug, eyebrows arched. “Oh?”

He shifts a bit, shy on the other end of her investigator’s gaze. “I thought we should, you know, do more date-type outings.”

Scully smiles at him as she sets her coffee down, a crinkle between her brows. “I’ve seen your internal organs, Mulder. I think our intimacy is sound.”

“It matters to me. Doing nice things for you. Us.” 

Scully chews her lip. “I know. I’m sorry that I’m not good at this.”

Mulder scrutinizes his chicken, clacking his tongs. “Well, you’re going to have to get over that, aren’t you? I can’t just whisk you off to late night autopsies like in the good old days. Gotta improvise.”

She walks behind him to wrap her arms around his waist, resting her head against his back. “You do a very good job. I deflect, but that’s got nothing to do with you. A picnic sounds lovely.”

His chest loosens then, the fear of her rejection, her disapproval, ebbing away.

“One only understands the things that one tames,” Scully murmurs, and Mulder is left wondering which of them is the fox.

III.

She buys him _Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management_ for his birthday, among other gifts.

“Har har,” he says, flipping through it. “Scully, you’re a wit.”

“Did you know,” she asks, “that she died at just 28?”

“Syphilis, wasn’t it? Wedding night gift from Mr. Beeton.” He thinks of Kristen Kilar, who still haunts him at times like a sullen ghost. 

“Mmmm,” Scully agrees.

He skims through several pages. “Scully, listen. Mrs. Beeton advises a lady of fashion against choosing her male household staff simply based on ‘height, shape, and _tournure_ of his calf.’” Mulder extends his leg accusingly. “For shame, you shallow thing.”

She snorts. “Mulder, I don’t know how to tell you this, but your calves are a bit-”

“Elegant?”

“Spindly.”

“They could make the angels weep. Oh, and here, some recommendations for the doctor. Have we any antimonial wine? Oil of turpentine?”

“Oh, gosh, fresh out.”

“Let’s make something,” he says. “Some kind of old-timey food. Blancmange. Beef tea.” 

Scully wrinkles her nose. “That doesn’t sound very appetizing.”

“It’s my birthday,” he reminds her, scanning recipes. “And your gift. I want, uhmmm….hot rolls. She says the recipe, ‘although very unwholesome and indigestible, is nevertheless a great favourite, and eaten by many persons.’ That’s a hell of a recommendation, huh?”

Scully shakes her head, but goes to the kitchen.

Mulder follows behind, excited. He has discovered he likes cooking, which suits Scully just fine, because she does not.

“I’ve never made bread,” he informs her, pulling ingredients from the pantry. “Indigestible or otherwise.”

Scully busies herself with pouring two glasses of wine.

Mulder mixes the ingredients per Mrs. Beeton’s vague instructions, then turns the pale lump out to knead. His hands are clumsy, grasping and twisting the dough inexpertly. “Hmmm,” he says, punching it.

Scully, sipping her Malbec, looks on. “You want some help?”

He gives her a withering glare. “You’re not exactly Julia Child over there.”

“I can knead bread. My grandmother used to make hot cross buns with us on Easter.”

He bows, gesturing her over.

Scully sets her wine down to wash her hands. She dusts a bit of flour on them after they’re dried, then places them atop Mulder’s. “Now look,” she says, guiding him. “You want to push it away with the heel of your hand, then tug it back.”

Her hands are dry and cool atop his, massaging them as she shows him how to work the dough. “See, we’re working up the gluten in the dough like this. Making it elastic. You do this with pie crust and you get tough pie. But bread, you want those proteins to be stretchy like chewed gum.”

“I thought you hated cooking.”

“I like chemistry.”

Mulder steps to the side, and nudges her between his arms. She thrusts back a bit as the dough toughens, requiring more effort from her arms.

“Scully,” he says, pushing his hips against her, “I think I know why these rolls are unwholesome.”

“Ugh,” she says, adding flour. “Mulder.”  


He leans down to nibble her earlobe. “It’s the _tournure_ of my calves, isn’t it? You’re getting all hot and bothered.”

“Bothered, yes. I am very bothered right now.” She grabs a tea towel from the drawer.

“How long does the dough have to rise?” he murmurs into her other ear.

Scully plops the dough back into the bowl, covering it, while he slides his hands up her arms. “Probably 90 minutes in this weather.”

“Seems like a long time. I’m risen already.”

“It shocks me daily that you were single when I met you. I mean, a smooth line like that…”

“Not everyone can handle my sophisticated humor.” Mulder unbuttons her shirt, cupping his hands around her breasts. “I’m pretty good at kneading now, I think.” He rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “See, look? Those proteins tightened right up, like you said.”

Scully braces her hands on the floury countertop, arms outstretched, her head fallen forward. “You’re pathetic, shameless, and disgusting,” she tells him. “Now take me upstairs.”

IV.

It is May and the earth is soft. He can smell fresh grass through the screens, and see the heavy stems of nodding tulips in the light breeze.

Scully is asleep still. It is a hard day for her to wake into.

He sifts cake flour, which the book tells him will make a finer texture than all-purpose. The eggs are fresh from local chickens, and he’d gotten Kerrygold butter and Tahitian vanilla. He cannot be sure the cake will get eaten, but it is important to him that it be his best effort.

The batter is smooth and creamy, and Mulder uses a digital scale to ensure that the pans are equally filled with it. He moves them to the oven, sets the timer.

While the cakes transform to airy golden sponge, Mulder beats more butter. He adds vanilla and fresh milk, confectioner’s sugar that makes him sneeze when it gets into his nose. He ensures there are no lumps in the frosting, then sets a small portion aside before tinting the rest a robin’s egg blue. The kitchen smells of happiness, of wholesomeness and the country.

When the timer buzzes, Mulder takes the cakes out to cool on a metal rack. He goes downstairs to sort some laundry, folding Scully’s exercise clothing into hand-sized bundles. Her lingerie is weightless, minute silk and lace scraps on the drying rack. Such small clothes.

A load of towels goes into the washing machine, some still damp from shared showers. Long strands of auburn hair cling to a few, and several of those are grey at the root ends. Mulder adds fabric softener to the load because he has begun to take more interest in creature comforts. His indulgences had started on Scully’s behalf, but he’s found he likes plush towels and good shampoo. 

He carries the basket of clean clothes back up with him, back to the sunlit world of cheery fabrics and fragrant cake. Mulder deems it cool enough to frost. He takes out an offset spatula, focusing on his work so that no other thoughts intrude. A thick layer of pale blue frosting soon joins the two layers and smoothly covers the whole outside. He uses a damp paper towel to tidy up the edges.

Mulder sits back in the chair to scrutinize the results. There is a hard thing in the back of his throat, like a bit of dry bread or tough piece of steak that won’t quite go down. He doesn’t want to do this, but needs the catharsis of it. He needs the small act, even in this lonely context. Resolved, he takes the untinted frosting and fills a pastry bag.

His hands only shake a little as he writes _Happy Birthday William._

V.

He bought a new grill for the occasion, a small gathering of Scully’s colleagues outside their house. They’d strung colored lights and paper lanterns, bought some second hand tables and chairs that Scully covered with her beloved vintage oilcloths. They are first-day-of-school giddy, neither of them with much entertaining experience.

There are platters of rolls and cheeses, cold grilled vegetables and heaps of shredded pork and carne asada. There are no vegetarians in these parts. Mulder has arranged a fruit platter and baked a Texas sheet cake, feeling pleased with himself. There is a half a case of wine and three pitchers of mojitos.

Scully wears white cotton trousers with wide legs and a plain black tank top. He knows minimalism is her security blanket. He opted for khaki shorts and a polo with a little alligator on it to please her.

“Nervous?” he asks, watching her fuss with the telescope. The Perseids should be beautiful tonight.

“No,” she lies.

“Good.”

Their guests begin arriving, chatting and complimentary of the setup. Mulder takes their wine bottles and chocolate boxes to open and share, while Scully runs her fingers through her long hair until it is limp. He sends her to set up the iPod.

He watches her as an outsider might, a beautiful woman laughing and making small talk. She guides people to the telescope in small groups, preening at their excitement. It was a good idea to have it.

Father Ybarra, her sour-faced boss, arrives with a paper plate of oatmeal raisin cookies. Mulder thinks of them as churchy cookies in the way he thinks of peppermints as churchy candy.

“Thank you, Father,” he says.

The priest nods, glancing towards Scully. “Thank you for inviting me,” he says, with crisp consonants. “You have a beautiful home.”

Mulder arranging the cookies next to his cake, pride of place, and hopes Father Ybarra realizes his good fortune at procuring Scully. Look at her, now pointing at the moon, now telling a  complicated joke to an anaesthesiologist who leans in a bit too close. He is not jealous; just empathetic.

The guests are having a good time, clearly, and the mojito pitchers are empty. Mulder gathers them on a tray to refill in the kitchen. A pediatric nurse giggles, holding the screen door open for him. 

He smiles to himself as he pulls mint leaves from the plant on the sill, unaccountably happy in the midst of this banality. He does not know or have any interest in most of these people, but knows they mean something to Scully. Through the window, he hears Stevie Nicks singing _Landslide_.

Scully pads into the kitchen, her black sandals likely kicked off by the door. “Hello,” she says. “Great party.”

“Bathroom’s down the hall, just past the living room,” he replies, pouring generous amounts of rum into the pitchers. 

“Maybe you could show me?” Her eyes are downcast, a small sliver of belly exposed by her loose pants.

“I’d love to, but the lady of the house might take offense.”

“Oh,” Scully says, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Mulder grins, and reaches out to take her hand. He leads her to the bathroom, and her tongue is hot on his throat before he manages to lock the door.

Her pants have a complicated 3-sided array of buttons and, in frustration, he allows her to unfasten them without interference.

“You really got off on that meteor shower,” he observes.

She kisses him quiet, fumbling at his fly.

Their angle is precarious, Scully balanced on the old porcelain sink stand while he grips her upper arms. It’s awkward and clanky and incredibly arousing. He finishes sooner than he wants with a disappointed groan. Scully bites his neck.

“Jesus,” he mutters into her hair. “I feel like you got cheated here.”

‘Mmm,” she says, hopping down. “Have to get back out there. But you’ll owe me.” Scully fastens her pants back up, then splashes a bit of water on her face. She exits the bathroom with no further insight into her frame of mind.

Mulder watches the sway of her hips as she goes back to her shoes, back to her guests. Moths barnstorm the floodlight.

He is happy to nourish her in any way he can.


End file.
